There are worse fates than being burned alive in red hot magma. Artemus Gordon knew this, because he felt he was suffering one of those fates right now. Dr. Miguelito Loveless had not shut up for five seconds from the moment his furious cousin had dragged both men out of the palace, all the way through to their being hauled up a mountain road and placed dangling precariously tied back to back with one another over a steaming volcanic vent. The little man could have given Rosa Montabella lessons in non-stop talking and complaining. Arte looked down almost longingly at the steaming, bubbling lava nearly a hundred feet below. The volcano, if given the chance, would be quick and relatively merciful in killing him. Having to listen to Loveless' endless stream of pomposity, criticism and venom, on the other hand . . . .

Still, it could have been worse. If Arte was destined to meet his end in the fiery depths of a Central American caldera, he'd rather take Loveless down with him than have it be his best friend who died strapped to his back. It was devastating to think that President Grant might die as well back in America, but Arte maintained hope against hope that Jim was still alive, and that Jim might even find a way to rescue them from their current situation. Growing weaker and dizzier from the heat and foul air, however, it was difficult to be an optimist. Arte was struggling not to nod off into a hyperthermia-induced unconsciousness when Loveless, flexing his little shoulders as much as their ropes would allow, jabbed Arte in the blade of one of his own.

"And this is another fine mess the two of you have gotten me into, Gordon!"

As if any of this was Artemus or Jim's fault!

"Us?" Arte protested at the unfairness of it all.

"You and your late partner Mr. West! The two of you are always causing me some sort of trouble instead of recognizing me and my work for the genius it represents!" Loveless shifted again, causing the pair of them to swing around slowly on the sturdy rope holding them in their present space, then swing back the same way. "As if that wasn't bad enough, Mr. West then has the profound lack of consideration to die without me being responsible! The nerve of that man!"

"Nerve," Arte grumbled. "You know, I happen to think the report of Jim's death, like the previous reports of yours, has been greatly exaggerated." Arte did have some idea as to why Loveless' trained raven might have been fooled into thinking so. He might have discussed scientific shop concerning the carrion-based cologne he had doused his partner in, but why trade secrets with the enemy even if this was the end for both of them? He wasn't going to waste the opportunity to get a word in edge-wise while Loveless had already talked himself hoarse though. "Where we are right now is no one's fault but your own! Jim and I might not always have had perfect relationships with our own families, but at least we never drove any of our relatives to murder us!"

"Will you not refer to that . . . that creature as a relative of mine?" Loveless screeched, finding his voice again enough to make Arte wince. "My grandfather knew precisely what he was doing when he pruned a verminous branch from our family tree! That muscle-headed brute is no relative of mine! He's just an egomaniacal, obsessive, self-centered criminal!"

"And of course the two of you are nothing alike," Arte quipped.

Loveless couldn't see the expression on Artemus' face as he said it, but the tone of voice gave even him pause.

"Sarcasm ill becomes you, Mr. Gordon," the doctor sniffed at last.

This whole damn assignment ill becomes me! Arte thought as he groaned to himself and writhed a little in discomfort. Loveless' legs didn't hang down nearly as far as his own, and every so often, the active volcanic vent would send up a spark or burning crumb of ash that Arte could only try to dodge in a very limited fashion. He'd already gotten several tiny pinprick burns on his legs and one or two higher up his body. Sooner or later, the volcano would send up something larger that might set either prisoner or the rope they were dangling from ablaze, and that would be it. This was to be Hector el Tigre's revenge for all the insults he had suffered – a death on the painful and extra well-done side. Arte looked up to see the wooden support beam anchoring the rope that held them over the vent. No guarantee that wouldn't catch fire either. From the char-surfaced beam, several iron hooks descended which had once held other ropes, other prisoners. Burnt strands of hemp on those hooks were all that remained. It was an impressive and no doubt effective method for keeping el Tigre's foot soldiers in line. Wedged into a massive turning wheel, the beam was so large and heavy that only the Tiger himself could move it back and forth to be loaded up with a new batch of people-poblanos to roast over the flames far below. However Arte imagined death could come for him someday, he'd never imagined this. Slow cooked or fast flambéed with his worst enemy in the world tied to his back in a foreign country after being ratted out by a bird that could talk! The heat and sulfurous air must be getting to him. In spite of his discomfort and the lack of anything humorous about their surroundings, he had to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.

"You think this is funny, Mr. Gordon?" Loveless gasped.

"Well, part of it is," Arte chuckled. "You know what's the really funniest thing about it though?" he asked, knowing Loveless couldn't answer. "The fact of the matter is," he wheezed, desperately wishing for cleaner air, "Jim and I weren't sent down here by our government to foil any of your latest schemes. We were sent here to rescue you!"

"Oh, ha ha, very droll, Mr. Gordon," Loveless remarked. "Do you really believe this is an appropriate time for one of your useless and ridiculous jests?"

"It happens to be the truth!"

Loveless snorted.

"Come, come, now, Mr. Gordon! Surely you can do better than that! Do you honestly expect me to believe for one second that even your parliament of fools in Washington would be so irrational, so nonsensical and . . . and ludicrous as to send you two – out of all the people in the world they could choose – to be my supposed saviors from my alleged cousin's less than gracious hospitality?"

"Cross my heart and hope to, uh . . . ." Arte's voice trailed off as he looked down at the red hot lava glowing in the gloom. "Well, we are the best."

As futile as the attempt was, Loveless tried to turn his head around far enough to get a look at the expression on his fellow prisoner's face. It only had the effect of making them swing back and forth again. But Arte had managed to accomplish the near impossible. Loveless remained quiet for nearly a full minute thinking about this.

"You're serious," the little wizard said next, stunned. "You are actually serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life," Arte told him, no longer finding anything to laugh at in the very real deadly danger they were in.

"James West and Artemus Gordon, my mortal enemies, the pestilential, obstructive, tampering meddlers who have made my every goal a nightmare of frustration and unrealized victories, have been hand-picked by their commanding officials to rescue me?"

"We thought it was a little unorthodox too," Arte shrugged, "but-"

Arte found his reply cut off as the doctor jerked in his ropes and began laughing so hard that it sent both them and their anchor-tie vibrating all the way up to the wooden beam.

"Oh, I take it back!" Loveless roared. "This is the cream of the jest, truly!" He kicked and twisted and giggled with his usual mixture of glee and madness. "Just when I think I have witnessed every last scrap of folly and stupidity that mankind is capable of engaging in, I am proved wrong once again! Mr. Gordon, you were right to laugh. Oh!" he gasped, trying to catch his breath. "This is the greatest joke of them all! And it has been played on me! No – on us!"

Well, he who laughs last, laughs best, they say . . . . As the shaking caused by Loveless' fit of hysterical humor stopped, Arte looked back up at the wooden support beam, and then back down at the magma awaiting them. He narrowly managed to jerk himself out of the way of another large, burning piece of ash that the volcano had coughed up at them, then began to do a bit of coughing himself. Is this how it ends? He hoped not, but it sure seemed like it. And once he and Loveless burned, there wouldn't even be bodies left to bury.

The heat. The unbearable heat.

He had no choice but to bear it now.

Jim, wherever you are, please hurry! Because I don't know how much more of this I can take . . . .